


Elastic Time

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, SGA Saturday Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever overworked your Silly Putty to the point that it's too warm and soft and overstretched and useless?  Yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elastic Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mischief5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischief5/gifts).



Rodney blamed getting lost in Atlantis—in Atlantis!—on thirty-six consecutive hours of coding the _Daedalus'_ new shield emitter protocols interrupted only by the bottomless cups of coffee and cheese Danishes Novak kept plying him with. He was so hyped up on caffeine, carbs, and sleep deprivation, when they finally beamed him down he could barely walk a straight line. Time was elastic, and he wasn't sure how long he'd been lost in this one part of the city. The corridor stretched out like the hallway of the _Enterprise_ in the episode _The Naked Time_ when Lieutenant Sulu was loopy from an alien disease and chased everyone with a fencing foil. 

And then John appeared, like a hero, like a marvel, and Rodney noted the halo surrounding Sheppard's hair gave him an oddly compelling affect. Rodney was drawn to him, flicker-moth-flame, only becoming aware of John's steady arm around his shoulders, steering him toward his quarters, when it tightened in alarm—Rodney had momentarily lost track of which foot was in front of the other and managed to trip himself.

"Okay. I think that's enough standing upright for today, buddy," John said, and then pushed him into his room, fending off Rodney's attempt to fondle him a moment later. "You smell really bad," he said in explanation to Rodney's offended scowl. 

"Oh, please," Rodney said, and tried to kiss him again. The guy deserved some reward for rescuing him from the Incredible Expanding City. 

"Really, really bad," John said, ducking and spinning Rodney around without effort, shoving him toward the shower. "Like one of those dead piñata things we found on P9A-569." 

Those were pretty stinky, Rodney had to admit—creepy, as well, with their white, dead eyes. The xenobiologists had never been able to determine what kind of creatures they were or why they chose to end their life cycles hanging from their clawed feet. 

"The live ones didn't smell so good either," Rodney mumbled as John stripped him of his shirt and then flipped it with one finger toward the hamper, holding his nose with the other.

"You'd better be the one to take care of your pants and shoes," John said.

"Oh. I see how it is," Rodney said.

"There are limits." John leaned against the wall and smiled, his eyes crinkling fondly.

Rodney didn't know what to do with that, exactly. His exhaustion was making the world seem hollow and rushed, as if coming at him through a toilet paper tube. But John was still limned in light, hazy though he was by the blurring of Rodney's tired eyes, and when he started stripping off his own clothes to join Rodney in the shower, it was all Rodney could do not to crawl right up to him and rub himself against every inch of his glowing skin.

"In you go," John said, and Rodney let himself be steered, let John push him under the water—oh, heavenly water, wet and warm and fresh. Suddenly he was just a little more awake, enough to perk up to the feeling of John's hands washing him down, the bar of soap sliding teasingly between Rodney's cheeks and rubbing against him; John's hands slick under his arms, between his fingers, then sliding down his stomach and soaping up his balls, his cock. 

"God, yes, please, yes-yes-yes," Rodney said. "Cupcakes, spaceships, weapons of mass destruction...give you my last cookie?"

John chuckled, a soft vibration against Rodney's back, and stroked him slowly, lazily, his hand full of soap. Even though his grip was hard, the action was smooth and utterly seductive. John's cock was getting a little action of its own, rubbing between the cheeks of Rodney's ass, and Rodney groaned and closed his eyes, leaning back into John's strength, then spread his legs a little when John's other hand slipped down below his balls and started sliding up and down his perineum. Up and down, up and down, a soft, stroking slide. 

"Perfect. Perfect." The rhythm of John's right hand didn't match his left, and the discordance was...absolutely amazing. Rodney tensed and then shivered, then relaxed before the cycle started again, cranking him higher. "Whoever taught you to do this was a saint."

"Taught me?" John sounded amused. "I picked it up on my own." He jerked Rodney a little faster, his fingers pressing harder.

That, combined with the image of John doing this solo, put Rodney right over the edge.

"Fuck," he said, in a slow, drawn out whisper as his balls clenched up and his body let go. Exhaustion made coming a dreamy affair, punctuated by sharp pangs of pleasure. John stroked him through it, dragging it out until Rodney felt like overextended silly putty. 

"Hang on," John said. "Don't give out on me yet." He leaned Rodney toward the back wall of the shower and said breathlessly, "Stay just like that."

Rodney grinned and leaned against the wall and let John rut between his cheeks. He wasn't sure how long it took—time was meaningless, a drifting, sugarcoated cloud. He was clean and satisfied. After some indeterminate interval, John grunted and splashed come on his back. 

"You better rinse that off," Rodney mumbled.

"Uh-huh," John panted into his neck, and then kissed him there, and rubbed his cheek against Rodney's shoulder, the sensation sharp and a little unpleasant, rousing Rodney enough to be coaxed back under the spray, and then into leaning against the sink to be toweled off. He tried to kiss John but was handed a toothbrush instead. He did a cursory job of it with his eyes closed, and he kept them that way as he blundered toward the bed, John's hands on his shoulders guiding him.

Then—soft, oh, God, soft and cool and dark.

Something nagged, though. He flopped a hand, flopped it again until it encountered warm, damp skin. There was a heavy sigh, and then John's lips finally pressed against his.

"Tomorrow," Rodney promised.

Whenever that was.

 

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> mischief: John: You smell like a goat after a three-day bender, dude.  
> esteefee: John will throw himself on a grenade but he won't throw himself on the stink-bomb that is Rodney McKay after 36 hours of coding.  
> 


End file.
